Churchill's Ace (Epic War Series Book 1) (15 page)

“No need; I want the lads on the ground in one piece. Get going.”

“Sir.”

The minutes passed and the fog thickened. Owen struggled for any visual acuity of the horizon. His propeller cut thru the fog, and it whipped it away from his Hurricane, only then to surround the plane again. Was there no end to the fog bank?

Owen wanted to climb out of the fog bank and land at a different base. The RAF bases at Debden or Hornchurch were the nearest. But how was Owen to navigate toward them in these dour conditions? And his engine was steadily losing power. He stayed on his heading for Biggin Hill and watched his instruments.

As Owen’s Hurricane lost altitude, he kept on his vector that would bring him to the safety of the runway at Biggin Hill. The fog was as thick as ever when his engine cut out. The propellers on the Hurricane came to a stop, and Owen was left with the whistling sound the Hawker Hurricane’s fuselage made as it nosed down.

He struggled with the controls to bring in the 5000 pound plus aircraft into an unpowered glide. Slowly but surely, Owen was going down. He was too low to bail out, and so his fate was in the hands of the flight Gods.

Captain Owen Cline’s approach to the airfield was short of the runway, by more than a mile. And worse he was off course by a full five degrees. Five degrees didn’t mean much in most occupations. In the business of flying, that was akin to a firefighter pouring gasoline on a house fire.

Owen’s Hurricane clipped a grove of trees and cartwheeled into the ground. His Hurricane burst into flames, and he died. Owen Cline would never do battle with the Germans or marry Madeline.

Wolf and Hans edged along the platform at the central Berlin Railway Station. The transportation hub was packed with people looking to get away for one of the last holidays of the late season. Finally, they found two seats in the back of the overnight train that was heading for Dusseldorf.

Once outside Berlin, they settled back in their seats. They watched the lights of Berlin disappear, and Hans said, “How are you doing?”

“Okay.”

It was then that the endless parade of trains traveling on the opposite side of the tracks and heading east was first seen. During the next hour, it was one train after another, whose flatcars were filled with German tanks and artillery. Troop trains were interspersed between the massive military might of the German war machine.

Most of the travelers on the Dusseldorf train were asleep and didn’t think much about what was going on. Hans and Wolf watched in awe as the military trains rolled by. They couldn’t sleep nor did they want to. As the onslaught of material and men continued, they became more attuned to what it meant. Finally, Hans said the obvious. “Poland. This time, it’s going to happen. When do you think, we’ll be assigned to our units?”

“Soon.”

“I guess I could hide out at the farm and avoid this whole mess.”

Wolf smiled, “Why did you join the Luftwaffe? What did you think was going happen?”

“I don’t know. I was expecting a nice set of wings on my uniform. Then I could walk down the streets of Berlin and people would look at me and say there goes a pilot. I didn’t think I would get shot at.”

“You stay on my wing, and nothing is going to happen to you. But you’ll have to keep up. I’m going to push the Me 109 to the limit. We’re going to be pulling a lot of tight turns and G’s.”

“So the enemy are the ones who should be worried?”

“That’s right.”

“My parents and Helga will be glad to hear that.”

“I know one thing.”

A train on the opposite track blew its whistle. “What?”

“You better enjoy your leave... while you can.”

“I just had a terrible thought. What if we go to the war with Zigfried in the same squadron? That would awful.”

“Get some sleep.”

Hans and Wolf were greeted at the Meyer’s family farm with hugs. Any friend of Hans was immediately accepted into the house with open arms. The farm was thirty miles outside of Dusseldorf and was surrounded by rolling countryside. Gigantic cone-shaped piles of hay dotted the landscape. It seemed for all intent purposes that time had stood still. As soon as they were inside, Hans took a whiff of air and said, “Can you smell it?”

“What.”

“Dinner. This isn’t Berlin... you’re in the country. Food and lots of it.” Hans’ extended family were all there, and the log-hewn farmhouse was packed to the gills. Brothers, sisters, cousins and uncles shook hands with Wolf, but not before Hans said, “This is Wolf Kruger, a fellow pilot. He will be my wingman or vice versa.”

Wolf laughed, “Thank you.”

Wolf immediately picked out Hans’ girlfriend Helga. Hans went over to her, and they had a long, passionate kiss. Hans bragged. “Somebody missed me.”

Helga let go of him and said, “It’s the other way around.”

Two massive tables accommodated everyone in the farm house. They sat down, and Hans’ father led them in a prayer. When Hans’ mother and his aunts brought out the food, Hans said loudly, “Not potatoes again!”

Helga punched Hans in the ribs and then kissed him. The old ladies at the table sighed as if they were reminiscing about bygone days in the sun, with their men who were once young and full of life. Most were now dead. They had the First World War to thank for that.

Hans’ father snapped his fingers, and one of his nephews brought out three bottles of vodka. He gave the bottle to Hans, who said, “Ahhh potatoes.”

He poured Wolf a glass, and then the bottles were passed around the table. Every glass at the table was hoisted as Hans’ father said, “To everyone here. Happy times no matter what comes. And to Hans and our new friend Wolf, be safe and never forget where you came from. Salute!” The entire table took a nip of vodka and Hans’ mother looked at Wolf. “Promise to bring him back in one piece. I would be most grateful.”

“As would I,” said Helga.

Wolf raised his glass of vodka. “Don’t you worry; I will bring Hans back safe and sound. Who else would work the fields, and Hans has so much to come back to.”

The table erupted in applause, and Helga wiped a tear from her eyes. Hans raised his glass of vodka. “And a toast to my friend who wants to be an ace. May you fly straight and stay out of the Channel.”

The music on the radio was interrupted by a news report. “Good evening ladies and gentlemen. It is my duty to report to you, that as of midnight tonight, our beloved country is now at war with France and the British Empire. We will persevere through our strength and loyal obedience to our Fuhrer. All military personnel are to report to their respective commands at once. All leaves are canceled. Heil Hitler!”

Patriotic music was played on the radio and the room became silent. Hans’ father poured himself another glass of vodka. The old ladies at the table became teary eyed, because they knew what the announcement meant. Death and destruction. Hans said, “Wolf do you think that means us? We aren’t officially pilots yet.”

“That’s about to change.”

Hans looked at Helga. “Marry me.”

“Now.”

“Tonight, before I go back.”

Helga looked at the other relatives in the room. Most nodded, and Hans’ father said, “Why not. Who knows when you’ll see him again. Anything could happen.”

“Yes.”

Hans kissed Helga, and the table was cleared. Ten minutes later it became official, if you could call it that since the ceremony was performed by Uncle Werner, who was a plumber by trade, who on this night doubled as a preacher. After the ceremony, Hans and Helga took their leave and went upstairs.

Wolf was alone with Hans’ relatives, and soon the questions started coming his way. “Is Hans a good pilot? Please tell the truth?”

Wolf looked up the empty stairs. “He’s proficient.”

Hans’ mother said, “But that’s not enough, is it?”

Wolf shook his head. “No, it’s not.”

Hans’ mother was on the verge of tears. Hans’ father said, “All the same, that doesn’t mean he won’t survive.”

“I’ll look after him. I give you my word.”

“And what of yourself?” asked Hans’ mother. “Who is looking after you?”

Wolf’s eyes narrowed. “No one.”

Owen Cline’s casket which was covered with the Union Jack flag was at the foot of the altar inside St. Paul’s Cathedral. It wasn’t unusual for military funerals to be held at the Anglican church, which is the seat of the Bishop of London, during the interludes between the First and Second World War.

However, the deceased had piled up so grievously during the Great War, that the practice was somewhat shunned because there would have been an endless line of dead waiting to be honored. Even if those who had died were men of standing, the carnage was so widespread and numerous, the queue in front of St. Paul’s Cathedral would have snaked out the church and around the corner.

Since Captain Owen Cline died on the cusp of World War II and the military death business was still stalled, he was afforded every pomp and circumstance that St. Paul’s Cathedral had to offer. It would have been better perhaps, that Owen had died in battle.

Such an unselfish sacrifice to save his countrymen in the face of the enemy, surely Captain Cline would be remembered as a hero to his men, who would hoist drinks in his honor at Owen’s favorite pub. They would praise Owen, “The bloke was one of a kind. He spit into death’s face and laughed when it was his time. Three cheers for Captain Cline!”

As it was, Captain Owen Cline crashed and died during a freak storm, laden with fog, that unexpectedly blew in from the Channel. To sum it up, Owen died while honing his skills, in the hopes of killing a future enemy. Who that enemy was, he couldn’t be sure, and now, that didn’t matter.

Owen Cline’s situation was familiar in the fact that two-thirds of air force fatalities during the war were non-combat related. Planes, of course, were designed to fly, but no one said the pilots who controlled the beasts in the air were infallible... far from it.

The mourners in the front row of St. Paul’s Cathedral included Winston, Clementine, Madeline and her brother Randolph, who was in his finest RAF uniform. To one side of Randolph was Lord Ashton. He looked as bad as ever. He had the shakes, which Randolph wasn’t sure was from his drinking or the early onset of Parkinson's Disease or some other malady.

Behind them in the next row were Lady Margaret and her theatre magnate lover, Harold “The Showman” Ickes. The church services proceeded properly along, and at one point, Randolph took to the pulpit to speak about his comrade and friend Owen Cline. Randolph reminisced as to when he first met Owen. How they were brothers in arms and would have been related in blood except for the horrible accident.

It was all rather touching as those things go, but Harold Ickes was squirming as Randolph pontificated. Surely a self-fulfilled gentleman as he was, who had no compunction to sit with hands neatly folded during the second of a three-act play, could find the intestinal fortitude to not stir during a recantation of a dead man’s life.

The services were coming to a conclusion, when a well-dressed man, walked up the side aisle of St. Paul’s Cathedral. The man passed the marble monuments of the great men of English history. The clicking of his dress shoes echoed on the floor as he passed the memorials to T.E. Lawrence and Sir Isaac Newton. By the time he reached the front of the church, he was out of breath. He handed a note to Winston Churchill and stepped back.

The mourners now turned their attention to Winston, who read the note. He placed it in his pocket and took out a handkerchief and wiped the sweat from his forehead. He looked at the Union Jack draped casket that contained Owen Cline’s lifeless body. He turned to Clementine, and his eyes were more than sad. They had the look of a condemned man, lifeless and hopeless. Clementine whispered, “What is it?”

“War…”

* * *

Winston and the others gathered at the plaza at the top of the stairs of the cathedral. Winston took off his top hat, and he bowed ever so slightly to Madeline. “Madeline you have my deepest sympathies. I’m afraid I’ve been called to the War Department.”

Madeline said dryly, “So it has begun.”

“There was no doubt that His Majesty’s ultimatum to Hitler’s invasion of Poland would be rebuffed out of hand.” James parked the Rolls Royce by the curb and walked up the steps. Winston said, “James, be so kind as to drive Clementine to Chartwell, after bringing me to the War Department.”

James nodded, “I will then wait for you, no matter how long it takes.”

“Take your time. The gnashing of teeth at the War Department has started. I’m sure only now, the politicians will be concerned at the order of battle of His Majesty’s Armed Forces. That would be late in timing and hypocritical in nature.” Winston shook Randolph’s hand. “Take care, now is your time.”

Randolph saluted Winston, “Sir.”

Winston and Clementine walked down the steps to the Rolls Royce. Lord Ashton edged forward and watched the Churchill’s depart. “He’s no better than the rest. Off he goes, only to leave the fighting to the soldiers, sailors, and airmen. And then those with real power they stab you in the back. Dreadful.”

Madeline said, “That’s enough.” She walked down the steps, and Randolph joined her.

Randolph said, “That was rather tidy.”

“What do you mean?”

“Owen is gone, and the war starts the very same day. Soon his death will be nothing but a distant memory. Even for you.”

Madeline stopped in her tracks. “How can you say that! I was less than a fortnight from being married to him.”

Randolph said softly, “You don’t understand. Owen would want you to move on. There is no other choice. You need to go on with your life.” Madeline fell into Randolph’s arms. She cried softly. “But if I come across Wolf Kruger, I will shoot him out of the sky. Him and every other German I can find.”

“I know.” They watched Lord Ashton carefully navigate the steps. Madeline thought he might fall. “Just promise me you won’t end up like him.”